A Bit Like Writing A Novel?

So, I’ve been warbling on and on about this chicken shed that is no longer a chicken shed but now a craft shed and a few readers have queried what I’m actually doing in there. Some of my antics I can speak of – some not.

I’m joking.

If you remember I started by making plaques and hearts? I still have these in my ‘portfolio’ but I’m pretty sure I won’t be making many more of these. They were a tad like a rough copy and as I progressed I edited them a few times, finally deciding that as a stand-alone item they are fine but a sequel will not follow.

I can totally relate this ‘craft’ thing to writing a novel . . . or at least to the way I write a novel. I start at the beginning with an idea and then see what happens. Usually, my characters write the novel for me and at times I have to rein them back with a firm hand. The same can be said of my ‘crafting.’ I start with an idea and see what happens. Quite often, like the novel, I end up with something that surprises even me – and not always in a good way.

I have days where everything I touch is utter crap and I  sit there staring at the debris, listening to Ken Bruce on the radio and watching Chea cleaning her bottom, stretched out across my work area. I don’t mind because frankly I’m not using it.

Then there are days when things go well and for a while I’m chuffed with what I’ve produced. Unfortunately, I have always been my own worst enemy and critic and usually, by the next day, I’m back to thinking it could be better.

I am fortunate that we have a log burner in the lounge. This is my plan B for the wooden failures. See, I am practical.

I’m liking the direction in which I appear to be going . . . large, chunky fairy houses and embossed pictures. It’s a bit like starting out writing romance and ending up in the horror genre. I like using rough wood, recycled and brought back to life. I love the way each piece is different and responds uniquely to sanding and painting etc.

Apologies, I’m wittering as usual. I only popped on here to post some pictures of what I’ve recently produced. The pics’ aren’t great but I think it gives the general impression. See, if I blame the images you’ll believe the items are better than they look. Sneaky, hey?

So, for Malla, Elaine, Evelyn etc. here you go . . .

How Can I Be Lonely With 3 Bats, A Spider And A Witch?

Hi

First, let me say how surprised I was at the response to my previous post – the loss of Rita Raptor and the heartbreaking episode of deciding to part with Mable. I thought everyone would laugh themselves half to death, after all, they were only chickens, but that didn’t happen. Everyone sympathised and understood. In fact, many of the comments made me at best, tear-up, and at worst, cry. I still miss them terribly but accept that I can’t continue to whine on and on about it so . . . I’ve attempted to move on – and this is how. . .

I told you that Richard had kindly dismantled all things ‘chicken’ in the summer-house and had taken it back to four walls, well, I decided to move all my junk off the kitchen table and into said summer-house. It was no longer going to be a chicken coop, a shrine to all that went before, it was now going to be a craft shed where I could make my er . . . crafts.

We (I) decided that the roof needed double skinning so that it was a bit warmer, with the winter coming and all, and he agreed, in theory, but when it came to lifting heavy MDF up above our heads and attempting to nail it to the ceiling the arguments started. He stood swaying under the weight and inconvenience of a 4’ x 8’ sheet of MDF stating that he couldn’t do it and I threw a wobbly and told him to forget the sodding thing and that I was going back to house and that I wouldn’t have a stupid craft shed. He calmed down and virtually begged me to let him attempt it again even though it was causing his two-year-old operation site in his shoulder, where they’d severed a tendon, great pain. Such a frigging hero!

Of course, I stropped a tad more and then we got on with it. We now have half of the roof double boarded, the other half is waiting for new M.D.F, that hasn’t even been ordered yet – but I’m sure we will get around to it.

I bought a few bits for in there – a clock, a blind (pinched 3 others from Richard’s shed) 2 lampshades, 3 bats (don’t ask) a huge black spider (don’t ask) and other crap that I’m pretty sure I didn’t and don’t need but I’m grieving and this kinda helps –  a bit.

I’m hoping to expand my range and go into other things to add to my portfolio, trouble is most of these ‘other things’ involve Richard getting out his Work Mate and rusting tools that hardly work, because he abuses them, and helping me. To be continued . . .

Some of you might think this is a lonely existence for me stuck a third of the way up the garden? It isn’t. I have a radio, CD player, head phones, a comfy chair for when I’m exhausted, a rocking chair for when I’m ‘rockin’,’ and a witch to keep me company. Obviously the witch isn’t real – though to be honest I do have my doubts. Sometimes, when I go into the shed first thing in the morning, she seems to be not ‘quite’ where I left her.

Some might say that I’ve lost the plot but how do you lose something you never had? Have to admit that I made a plaque this morning with a chicken on it and the wording ‘Go Chuck Yourself.’ I’ll leave you to form your own opinion and rescue the Quorn and potato pie from the oven. See, I still find time to cook proper food. Well, I figure Richard needs to keep up his energy levels if he is going to be of any use whatsoever? He’s kinda in favour at the moment because yesterday he bought me a lovely heater for my shed. He said I needed to keep warm in the winter. Frankly, I think he bought it to keep Chea warm in the winter  as she spends more time in the comfy chair than I do.

Again, thank you all for your kind words.

Take care x

And Then I Broke My Own Heart.

Hi

It’s been a while – again. I honestly do not know where the time and days go to. This year has flown by on even faster wings.

I blame it, in part, to Richard still being here. Not, you understand, ‘still being here’ as in I haven’t murdered him yet but as in he still hasn’t joined the great British work force and therefore drifts around the place cluttering up my day. He tells me there is ‘nothing out there.’ This I know is a lie. I think I told you I saw an opening, albeit seasonal, for a Father Christmas at a local store. He has the portly build and the rustic beard, though, to be honest, I do openly admit that he’d be hard pressed uttering the words “Ho Ho Ho” every 5 seconds. “Ho Ho Ho” on a regular basis he is not!

Not to worry, I’m finding him lots of lovely little jobs around the house. The latest was to take up the stair carpet, repaint all the woodwork, and supervise a new carpet being laid. We had an argument, of course, as to whether or not the radiators needed painting. I said, ‘Don’t be an idiot of course they do!’ He said, ‘Well, I don’t think they do.’ Now riddle me this . . . who do you think won this argument?

He tells me that he likes being here with me all day – every day. And what’s more he says it with a straight face. Perhaps there’s an actor’s job going somewhere?

This period of absence has also been down to the fact that I’ve had some sad news and a hard decision to make.

Rita Raptor, the chuck, became poorly, showing symptoms that I’ve seen before in the chucks that I’ve lost. Some days she was up and some days she was down. Then the down days extended until, finally, there were no up days and she stopped eating, drooped her little wings and closed her tired eyes. I’ve been struggling with the health of my hens for the last few years and I have now come to the conclusion that they must be finding something out in the garden that doesn’t agree with them. I have no idea what it could be. It certainly isn’t the conditions in which they are living under. My chuck cage and outside run is cleaner than a hospital operating theatre!

I knew from past, sad experience, that Rita wasn’t going to pull through so we took her to the vet who confirmed my fears and she was put to sleep. Richard and I didn’t speak coming home in the car. It’s hard to trust your voice when you have an emotional lump wedged in your throat.

This left Mabel.

We had been in this situation three times now – left with just one chicken – and each time we had rushed to the farm and brought another chuck home as company to the remaining hen. I wasn’t going to do that this time. The time had come to end all of this. Whatever was killing my chucks could not kill another. Mabel was the sweetest, tamest, loveliest hen you could ever find. She followed me around the garden like a doe-eyed puppy, coming instantly when I called her, always on the lookout for a little treat. For the next week we only shut Mabel in her summer-house at night to roost. During the day she spent time down at the house, having a few treats and being allowed to scratch in the ‘forbidden’ part of the garden.

After a week I did something that broke my own heart. I took her to the local animal sanctuary, two miles from here. I couldn’t keep her on her own, I couldn’t risk getting another, and I couldn’t accept her going the same way as the others.

She didn’t utter a chirrup all the way there, just sat patiently in Chea’s cat basket watching the world go by the car window. When we got to the sanctuary the girl let her out of the basket and they gave her a quick health check. They remarked that she was in excellent condition and in return she clucked and blinked and then started to ‘talk’ to me – ‘chicken’ people will know exactly what I mean. I imagined the dear soul saying, ‘I’ve enjoyed my little trip out . . . can we go home now?’

They asked if we wanted to see where she was going . . . with three other chucks and a cockerel. We didn’t. I couldn’t. She would have to battle while she found her place within the pecking order and I would be tempted to scoop her up into my arms and bring her home and treat her with a bit of cooked pasta that I had in the fridge.And besides, they would witness two grown adults crying over a chicken.

We left her there, still ‘talking’ to me, and we walked away.

Richard dismantled the nest boxes, perches, dividing partition and stored away the feed and water containers. I won’t have any more chucks here.

The garden is like a tomb . . . as quiet as the grave. I miss them terribly. I stand and watch the sunlight spearing down through the shrubs into the undergrowth and I can see them. I am stupid. I know that. They were only chickens. Nothing THAT important. But I can’t convince myself of that . . . not yet . . . and knowing me, not ever. So, you see, I chose to break my own heart. Yep, stupid. Really stupid.

 

Take care all x

Something I Haven’t Mentioned Until Now. . .

Someone asked me the other day how Little and Flight (the chucks) were doing? I grimaced a bit and then had to admit that they weren’t doing very well at all – in fact, they both died in March.

I haven’t told you this until now, mainly because it was very upsetting.

Flight became intermittently poorly – one day OK and the next day not so OK – Yes, I do know that is the meaning of intermittent! She would be as bright as a button for a day or two, eating every bug in sight and destroying the garden, and then take herself off into the shrubbery and sit hunched and sick-looking.

There was little point in taking her to the vet, this I have learnt with previous chucks. The treatment is either antibiotics, that never work, or missing that stage altogether and going straight in for the kill.

One Sunday morning she didn’t want to come out of her bed and from under the heat lamp, and during the morning she slipped into a coma. Around four in the afternoon she drifted peacefully away.

She was a lovely chuck, not as tame and forthcoming as Flight but beautiful. I never grew tired of watching her scratching around on the lawn with the sun on her feathers. She shone blue in the sunshine.

We then had the awful problem of being left with one chuck. Everyone will tell you one chicken is a no-no and it’s true. They, like many other creatures are flock/herd animals and they need the companionship of others.

We decided, in our infinite wisdom, to pop to the farm down the road and pick up a friend for her. Little was a kind soul, originally being hen-pecked and at the bottom of the pecking order, a bit of a runt really so we had little worry about her accepting a new friend.

There wasn’t a great deal of choice, but we weren’t looking for something to ring whistles and bells just a dear companion for Little, someone to help her over her grief of losing her best friend. We chose a Red Island Red cross Light Sussex and hurried home.

We placed the newbie in the chuck house, partitioned off from each other, but still able to see one another. After several hours, and everything going swimmingly, we decided to carefully introduce them to each other.

The newbie approached Little looking really jolly and happy. Little, dear, sweet, Little, raised her head as tall as a giraffe, leapt into the air and attacked the newbie. For seconds we stood in shocked silence as Little dealt blow after blow on the newbie, until finally the newbie struck back, catching Little on her comb and drawing blood. By this time we were moving and I grabbed Little.

After this the newbie was named Rita Raptor.

Over a period of a few days they had short sessions of ‘almost’ contact with each other, with me standing between them like an on-guard sentry. It was around Rita Raptors fifth day that we noticed Little not being quite right. It was at this point that I realised I had made a grave mistake in thinking that Flight had died from something peculiar to herself. Obviously they both had it. She deteriorated overnight and I wasn’t prepared to watch her die slowly so we took her to the vet, and she put her to sleep.

I was bitterly upset. Yes, I know. She was just a chicken. But my chucks are not just chucks and Little was a sweet girl.

So, we now had the same problem . . . one chuck on its own. Fortunately the chucks’ cage is a summer house, divided down the centre, so Little and Rita had, in fact, been kept separate. We crossed everything that we had and prayed that the Raptor hadn’t picked up the disease.

We scrubbed everything in sight – ten times – even though the chuck house is cleaner than some hospitals – and then, after a week, fetched another chuck for Rita. This was Mabel.

Mabel dealt Rita Raptor a swift peck to the head and that was that. Rita accepted instant defeat and all was well.

They are like my permanent shadows. Originally they were both quite timid with me, but I have a trick . . . it’s called ‘corn in the pocket.’ Once Rita knew there was a supply of corn in my pocket – and if she came to me she would get some – we were away. Now I can’t appear without them tearing down the garden and wrapping themselves around my feet. I’m always tripping over them or standing on their toes. They don’t seem to mind.

I still miss Flight and Little.

So, now you know. My girls have gone. I sometimes imagine I see them, a quick flash of blue in the undergrowth, where the sun slants through – and who knows, perhaps I do. I like to think so. Rita and Mabel are sweet and friendly and funny but time hasn’t dulled the memories of Little and Flight just yet and so, for now, Rita and Mabel will have to remain towards the bottom of my pecking order.

 

Take care x

Chicken Pooh On Legs ?

Hi All

Do you ever think you are too nice? I mean, I’m sure you are nice anyway, but I know, for a fact, that it’s possible to be too nice. Too friendly. And today I paid the price.

Picture this – I park the car and make my way to the bank. No problem. The bank has a queue right back to the door. Still no problem, because it’s 10.05 and I have an appointment, across the road at the hairdressers, for 10.30. It’s also raining, I forgot to mention that.

So, this suits me just fine. I figure that by the time I get to the front of the queue it will be approaching 10.30. I’ll quickly pay in the cheque and then pop across the road, nice and dry, and promptly on time. Good plan? Of course it was.

Then . . .  the elderly guy behind me, in the queue, makes a comment that I don’t quite catch, because he kinda mumbled. Either that or Richard has finally sent me deaf with his booming voice. This is the point at which I made the mistake of smiling and nodding. This has always been my stand-by reaction when I don’t quite catch what someone has said. Either that, or scowl and shake my head. I’ve perfected it over the years. I just catch the drift, the tone if you like, and adapt the face. Nice tone . . . smile and nod. Sad tone . . . scowl and shake my head. This works very well and I don’t have to listen to people!

The bank person thingy (yes I really do type ‘thingy’ when I can’t be bothered to think of the right word) toddled up and asked if she could help with anything – pay stuff into the hole in the wall. I said no thanks, I’ve an appointment over the road that I’m early for so it suits me to wait. Off she scooted.

Now the guy behind me informs me, in clear words that I do catch, that he will be fine when he gets his half a million at the end of the month.

My little ears pricked up at that and I, never being one to miss an attempt at being witty, guffawed, ‘Half a million! Blimey, are you married?’

And that was that. A harmless little quip and away he went. Married twice. Served in the army. 5 canines. Never leaves the house without leaving one dog behind. Grandson . . . blah, blah, blah . . . shoe size, known allergies, more blah, blah, blah. Then, he discussed how dogs ‘picked up’ on menstruating women. He faltered slightly at this and quickly concluded with, ‘Well, you’re a lady so you know what I mean.’ He then coughed a bit and changed the subject to the price of Morrison’s doughnuts, closely followed by uneven pavements and a hundred uses for fine graded sandpaper.

Dear God. All I did was attempt to show what a witty, friendly, little person I am, and I had twenty-five minutes of face-to-face, in-my-face, sodding dialogue from some guy who was almost halfway to being a millionaire. I will never again go to the bank on a Monday morning at 10.05.

To be honest, I did bloody well. I didn’t let the smile drop for a second and nodded and frowned in all the right places for a full twenty-five minutes. I guess I made an old man very happy . . . or not. Whatever. . . .

Needless to say, my hair has been cut wobbly and strange because I sat in the chair ranting and raving for ten minutes, with my hair stylist laughing and trying to catch my swinging hair.

Actually, I’m lying. My hair is fine. She didn’t cut it wobbly. (She may read this blog so . . .) Just joking sweet Emma.

Then I came home and had the chucks out. I was quite concerned because when I pooh-picked there was a huge pooh in the sleeping area. Far too big for a chuck to pass. I leant down to pick it up and it leapt up at me. Yep. My worst nightmare – a leaping frog. After I’d run screaming from the chuck cage, and calmed down a bit, I returned with the fishing net and caught said frog. I released it at the side of the pond and it hopped off, covered in wood shavings and grey feathers – the chucks are moulting, remember?

I’d put money on it being the same frog that has found its way in there five times now. Just how it escaped being ripped to shreds by the chucks is a bit of a mystery. Maybe, with it covered in feathers, like that, they thought it was a very bouncy chick!

So, that was the start to my day. Tomorrow I may avoid people, and try to regroup my good nature. In fact, I may avoid people until Thursday when I have to toddle off to have this 24 hour blood pressure monitor fitted. That’ll be fun without laughing to be sure. The last time they tied me into one of those things I didn’t sleep a wink. Every hour the tourniquet armband expanded with a loud rumble, and the duvet rose up into the air.

Now I am going to remove Chea from the laptop and go and ‘pot up’ some winter heathers into hanging baskets. Not keen on heather. Don’t know why I bought it to be honest. I guess it will give a bit of colour over the coming grey days? Weirdly, one seems to have disappeared overnight. I bought nine and now there are only eight – which totally throws out my planting scheme. This, along with how the frog got into the chuck cage, is another mystery.

Re Chea and the laptop . . . since becoming the ‘star’ of the Two Chucks and a Tabby Cat book, she is even more persistent at hogging the laptop. She cuddles next to it each night as I type some rubbish of one kind or another, as if keeping an eye on what might come next. I get the distinct impression that she thought the book should be titled, A Tabby Cat and Two Chucks?

Take care my lovelies x

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Two-Chucks-Tabby-Cat-2012-ebook/dp/B0140A4RMC

Just A Little Update . . .

Hi All

Yes, it’s been a while. I think we have had a change of season since I was last here. Without boring you all to death, and without wallowing in self-pity, I’ll just say that continual migraines/ headaches/visual auras have flattened me over the last fourteen days. Each time I attempt to look at a computer screen my vision starts to object.

I stuck it out for as long as I could but after receiving an ear bashing from my son, toddled off to the doctor. She was very sweet and informed me that, in her opinion, my stress levels were through the roof. Can’t imagine why? Anyway, we have a few ‘idea’s’ in hand – 24 hour blood pressure monitoring, blood tests and meds. Obviously the meds zonk me out, but at least they give me a valid reason for being half brain-dead!

As I mentioned – the season has changed since I was last here. Chea has already grown a thick coat, probably in preparation for a cold winter? She looks twice her normal size. Mind, this could also have something to do with the fact that she never stops eating and Richard never stops giving her treats, even though he swears that he doesn’t.

The chucks are in various stages of baldness. Little has just about replaced her lost feathers and Flight’s tail feathers are slightly visible. She still looks like a well-used dirty feather duster. They have taken to coming down to the house of late and stand outside the patio doors, on the mat, preening and poohing. And Flight has become rather brave and risks excursions into the kitchen when I’m not looking to raid any leftover bits in Chea’s food bowl. Once upon a time, the chucks gave Chea a wide berth. This has now changed and three days ago Little pecked Chea on the nose. A new ‘pecking’ order is now firmly in place.

The garden has been given over to caterpillars. Hundreds and thousands of the sodding things. And here’s the thing, in a tantrum, I shook some from the broccoli, for the chickens, because it felt slightly less cruel providing food for them, rather than shaking them off and leaving them abandoned on the ground. They freakishly eyed them before turning and running off into the shrubbery. I didn’t realise, until I went back to the house and took off my wellies, that a caterpillar had fallen into my left boot and it came out squashed but still squirming. Yuck . . . and double yuck!

The slug brigade is less evident in the garden, but when I lifted some old broccoli leaves in the compost heap, I came across several very large families of the horrid things – all pink and slimy. I left them. I couldn’t bring myself to evict them somehow.

The greenhouse is full of spiders. Big. Medium. Small. Black ones. Brown ones. Beige ones. The worst thing is forgetting this fact because you then find yourself wearing a web, usually with a dead fly, in some state of decay, attached.

I know many people love this time of year. Glorious reds and yellows of falling leaves. Low morning mists. That autumnal chill in the air. Wood smoke. It appeals to me, to a certain degree, but to be honest I find it all rather sad – the end of another year. Everything shutting down. Soon the garden will sleep. I won’t have reason to go up there – although, having said that, the chucks are allowed up there throughout the autumn and winter, but only under supervision as the garden backs on to a regular ‘fox run.’ I think the wood burner in Richard’s summerhouse (shed) will be put to use and I’ll relax while I babysit the wrecking crew? Relax? Did I actually write that word? Lord, I can’t think of anything more boring . . .

And, because I am half brain-dead . . .  and because I don’t want to bore the pants off you, I will toddle off and hopefully be back soon, brighter and whatever . . .

Take care my lovelies x

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Two-Chucks-Tabby-Cat-2012-ebook/dp/B0140A4RMC

No Shaking Of The Tail Feathers Here!

Hi All

Do you know that feeling? The one when you are bursting with excitement and have to rush around like a headless chicken (probably not the best comparison all things considered) shouting your exciting news and it falls on indifference and deaf ears? Yes? No? Well I do.

Chea barely batted an eye at the revelation that she was now ‘in print.’ Couldn’t have cared less in fact. I did see her at the edge of the pond with her nose pressed against a bewildered frog but I don’t think she was passing on the news, just terrorising the poor thing. It escaped into the water and she toddled off to roll in the cat mint. I’m sure she has spent most of the summer stoned!

The chucks couldn’t give a toss either. They are more concerned in throwing out feathers right, left and centre and going for the grandmother of all moults. Flight has completely lost her tail feathers and now has a ‘rounded off’ bum. I haven’t told her that it’s not a good look. She’s a bit sensitive to ridicule. Little’s feathers (white) are falling like snow and I fear I may end up with two chucks that look like they are ready for the table. Hush my mouth!

Each morning, when I go to pooh pick, I am welcomed by a layer of feathers and a slimmer chuck. I just hope they feather-up before the weather turns even more miserable. I can’t see the feathered floor without it reminding me of that John Denver song, Grandma’s Feather Bed. Do you know the one? ‘We didn’t get a lot of sleep but we had a lotta fun …on Grandma’s feather bed.’

 I love the imagery of that song …hound dogs, a front porch, old ones chatting, kids bouncing on grandma’s huge feather bed, giggling, etc. I digress.

So, I told the chucks that they are also in print. Flight emitted a fluid pooh that landed on my foot and Little flapped off and massacred a spider that was dangling from a rose bush.

I thought about discussing it with the tomatoes in the greenhouse but then I thought, ‘get a grip you prat,’ so I did.

It is almost that time of year. That time when I walk out into the garden and ‘feel’ it. That something in the air that is quite, quite different. The end of summer and the beginning of autumn. I can’t describe it.

It’s been a pretty crap summer really. Nothing in the garden knows if it’s coming or going. What hasn’t been flooded out, dried out, eaten and chomped to death, has been flattened by the wind or Chea. She’s either rolling around on her back like some sexy temptress or leaping up and down through the veg patch chasing frogs. I may ‘do’ more flowers next year …or not …whatever.

We have started to stock up the log shed. A palette load arrived in the week – even though I told Richard in no uncertain terms NOT to order them. He’s such a sod. He sits on eBay every night wondering what the hell he can order next. My bum barely has time to settle on a chair before some delivery person is banging on the front door with a package for him. I dare not mention that I would like, or need, anything because four days later it arrives at the door.

He is currently buying every boxed-set series known to man. We/I have worked my/our way through Breaking Bad, True Blood, Pirates, Game of Thrones, Banshee, House of Cards, Homeland and Dexter. AND I’ve probably missed out a few! Oh yes, there’s also the first two seasons of Hannibal waiting for viewing …after Dexter. I like to think that I’m a busy, active type of person but frankly, looking at that list, I’m not sure any more.

In my defence I should say that I rarely watch anything on mainstream TV. A couple of soaps – but even they ‘share’ the same plot. And the plots are pathetic half of the time. So, I guess Richard can carry on ordering the boxed-sets?

And, of course, I’m currently working on the two children’s books. Sort of. Now and then. In between rescuing frogs, singing Grandma’s Feather Bed and stacking logs!

Now I need to go on You Tube and listen to the bloody thing…

And then, later, when Richard gets home, we have to start dismantling the rockery around the pond. A major dropping of the water level has recently occurred. But we have now, hopefully, tracked it down to the pipe that runs from the filter box to the waterfall. Unfortunately, said pipe runs through a rockery so we have to gird our loins and dig out the darn thing. I will help – from a safe distance of a few metres – and point out with a long stick which rock needs to be moved, and in which order, so that an avalanche doesn’t occur…and also because I dread to think how many frogs, toads and newts are living under those rocks. Richard is as keen to do this as he would be to stick pins in his privates but it has to be done. Hopefully, we can track down the leak to somewhere in the rockery otherwise it’s a HUGE job which involves removing all of the plants, the surrounding rockery, the entire liner and three ancient goldfish, that are the size of small whales. I mean, where on earth could you put them? It’s not like they can fit in a bucket. And I doubt they could even fit in the bath …well, actually that would be impossible because we don’t have a bath and I doubt they would appreciate a walk-in shower?

After Grandma’s Feather Bed I’d better toddle off to check on the water level…

Take care my lovelies x

Cabbages, Chickens And Game Of Thrones.

Hi All

The weather here in good old Leicestershire has been quite nice for the last few days. Unfortunately, I’ve not really sat around in it much. The mornings have found me watering baby plants that look fine one minute and then down on their knees the next, and carefully placing slug pellets in places where the slugs can munch but nothing else can.

This, of course, leaves several areas pellet-free. None are applied in the areas where the chucks scratch, none where Chea might decide to wander, and none where other ‘visitors’ to the garden might access.

Talking of the chucks I can now state with an abundant amount of optimism that Flight has made it back to the land of the living. I honestly thought she wouldn’t make it, as day after day she seemed to be losing the will to live. Frankly, I guess I shouldn’t have used that as a ‘sign’ because even I do that sometimes but I always bounce back.

Blimey, that was a touch depressing wasn’t it? Sorry, I didn’t intend it to be.

Anyway, Flight has returned to her normal self and all, for now, is well. Little looked a bit ‘suspicious’ and I’m therefore keeping an eagle eye on her. I guess being caught by Richard carefully separating a large pooh, kindly dropped by Little on the outside mat, didn’t confirm my sanity but there you go. I won’t bore you with the details but it looked a bit ‘wrong.’

I put this return from the dead down to my Victoria sandwich cake, grapes, bananas and garlic and cider apple vinegar …but I may be wrong.

So, this is my morning routine, which leaves the afternoons to sit in the sun. Er …yes, however, my son, bless his little doodah, supplied me with the first 2 seasons of Game of Thrones, stating that, ‘I don’t know if you’ll like it, Mum, but give it a go,’ and seeing how the TV is utter crap at night, I did just that – I gave it a go.

My first impression wasn’t great. I couldn’t see how it needed quite so much blood spilled, quite so many decapitations, and I also wasn’t sure that all the naked flesh on show really added to the storyline? I was informed by my friend Philip Earland that was the genre, so who am I to ague. I stuck with the next few episodes and then I realised that I was hooked. I loved several of the characters – I won’t say which characters because one of you will kindly tell me that they die in season 4!

So, this has become my afternoon sin – I watch back to back episodes of Game of Thrones. The sun shines outside and I, pale and cuddled beneath a throw (the lounge is bitterly cold) watch Game of Thrones. Of course it came to an abrupt end as I realised that my son had missed out an episode in season 4. I had words with him and the said episode is, as I write, winging its way to me in the post. See, my son is a very obedient child and obviously loves me to bits. Either that or he just can’t stand my constant wittering, and demands, and has learnt from an early age simply to go with the flow.

Richard loves all of this. No, honestly he does. I’m centre stage in the lounge with my tea, sweeties, salted cashews, the remote control, the blood and guts, and he toddles off for a ride in the countryside on his motorbike. Then, he returns, changes transport to the car and pops to McDonalds and returns with a caramel sundae thingy. I’m actually now beginning to think that I might miss him when he goes back to work next week …YES he IS going back to work next week, after 4 months convalescing after his shoulder op. Now I shall have to do all the sodding vacuuming and stuff that he has been religiously doing day-to-day. Mind, without him the house and his bloody black socks that shed black fluff all the way up the stairs, there won’t be so vacuuming to do.

This Game of Thrones thingy has had a weird effect on me to be honest. The other day I treated myself to a new battery operated hedge trimmer (I know how to get my kicks!) and we decided to try it out. As I stood with said tool in my hands, ready to go, Richard grovelled on his hands and knees to place the tarpaulin around the conifer that was about to get ‘rounded’ (massacred.) His little head was bowed and the back of his neck clearly available. The thought ran through my mind (only for a nano second!!!!!!) that it would only take the swiftest of moves from my hand and new toy and his head would be off and rolling across the gravel….and stop with the wide eyes and the look of horror that’s spreading across your face …of course I wouldn’t really do it. I love the man. Adore him. Don’t I? And besides, it was a hedge trimmer for Pete’s sake, not a flipping chainsaw!

As I say, Game of Thrones does have an impact and probably isn’t for the easily influenced …or the faint-hearted.

So, off I trot to save a baby plant of some description, and to let the chucks out to terrorise every living insect, and then, hopefully, if episode 4 of season 4 drops through the letter box I’ll be curled up inside with my caramel sundae! Yes, I know it’s wrong. But hey-ho.

Take care my lovelies x

Let Them Eat Cake?

Hi All

I told you in my last blog that I feared for Flight, that I thought she was on that downward spiral to chicken heaven – or should that be an upward spiral to chicken heaven? Possibly.

For days I tempted her with the odd squashed grape, watching while she cocked her head, as if half blind, to stare drunkenly at it until Little barged in and scoffed the grape in one. I tempted and wiggled cooked spaghetti beneath her tightly closed beak …until Little barged in and scoffed it in one.

As Flight grew thinner, Little grew fatter. I will be renaming her Big at this rate.

And then – Flight pecked at, and swallowed, a grape seed. An hour later she murdered an ant and managed to eat it after 4 attempts. I left them out in the sunshine for most of the day and by roosting time she had taken a few bits of lettuce and a piece of banana. Obviously not the best diet for a chicken but I didn’t care, anything down her throat was better than nothing. The following morning she looked a bit brighter and again spent most of the day in the garden, in the sunshine, pecking at a few strands of grass and occasionally accepting my humble offerings. I breathed a deep sigh of relief and for the first time actually thought that she might not be flapping up to chicken heaven.

The following morning saw her hunched up again and refusing everything. She remained that way all day and into the following day. I went to bed that night knowing beyond doubt that she wouldn’t see the sun come up.

Weirdly, Richard was up at the crack of dawn (it’s OK to say this as long as I don’t mistakenly spell dawn with a capital D) and when I came down ten minutes later he had let the chucks out. Little was bouncing on the spot, at the gate, waiting for me and my delicacies, and Flight stood some way behind her. Amazed to see that she was alive, let alone standing, I grabbed the only thing available for their morning treat – a piece of Victoria sandwich base that I’d removed from the freezer the previous night. As I approached the gate they spotted the cake. Little continued bouncing in expectation and Flight trotted to the gate to join her. As I crumbled the cake they BOTH dived on it and devoured it. Yes! Bloody devoured it!

Was that it? Was my home-made Victoria sandwich the answer? Well, I can’t say for sure but all I will say is that Flight took some lettuce, dandelion leaves, a few grubs and more cake yesterday and this morning she snaffled more and is looking much brighter.

Of course this could all still end in tears because she has bounced back before and then deteriorated again …but I am slightly more hopeful. I also put her on garlic and cider apple vinegar as I suspected a bit of sour crop. Not sure if this is having, or has had, any effect but it’s certainly jazzed-up Little, she’s running around the place like a creature insane, tail feathers flying!

Today I shall attempt to get Flight to take something more sensible but …if cake is all she will stomach right now, and admittedly only a teaspoon  at a time, then cake it will have to be. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it. Spring grass, vitamin D and home-made Victoria sandwich is on the menu just now …

 

To be continued …

Take care my lovelies x

The Games People Play …Eventually!

Hi All

To be honest, I don’t think I ever ‘pencilled in’ grandchildren as a possibility in my life. Don’t ask me why, I just didn’t. Maybe I thought that I would always be too young to have grandchildren? Yeah, well that moment has passed by on a fast bike – so here I am about to ‘mention’ them – grandchildren that is, not fast bikes.

Something else that I never thought I would do is play ‘games.’ I don’t mean monopoly or leapfrog or stuff like that, been there and done that, no, I mean games that you play on a tablet. In my opinion they are as time-wasting and pointless as anything else that I find time-wasting and pointless but …and this is where I link to the grandchildren…

Grace, 3, whose first words on entering granny’s house are, ‘Can I take my clothes off?’ (weird even by my standards) had a tablet for Christmas and insisted that I had a go at Panda Pop. Panda frigging Pop, I ask you. This caused great shrieks of fun and barely hidden scorn as grandma couldn’t pop a panda, and this was on level 8 after Grace had achieved all previous levels!

Soooo, Richard suggested that he put Panda Pop on his tablet and then grandma could practise in the week and show Grace how much she’d improved by the next time she came over. Big deal. Later that evening – in the middle of me ridiculing someone on The Voice – Richard passed his tablet to me and said, ‘Well go on then, get practising, Grace will expect you to be at least on level 10 by next weekend.’

Cheeky sod. Even I could do better than that. Do you see what he did there? He threw down a subliminal challenge, knowing that I am one of the most competitive people alive.

Long story short …I found myself addicted and merrily and greedily set about releasing all the dear, sweet little pandas from their prison bubbles, until …level 89. Then I got stuck …for 2 days.

Fortunately, Jake and Grace were due over last weekend so I explained to Jake that I couldn’t achieve level 89 and he set about helping me. It took him a few goes but he did it by storing up all the thingamabobs that you aim (haven’t quite mastered the lingo yet) and blasting the whole thing.

I cannot describe to you the look on his little face. It was one of those moments that you would like to capture in a bottle and to keep for all time. Priceless. The pride he oozed was almost palpable.

I have now trotted on from level 89 and I’m on level 112. I say this with a huge degree of embarrassment because I really do think these things are a waste of time, but hey-ho, until someone deems otherwise I actually do have the time to waste. If only I wasn’t so sodding competitive. Mind, I am a Scorpio, so our boredom levels are pretty low. Next week it could be something else.

I’m not sure how Jake and Grace view me. I think it’s a mixture of mad and fun. But then, most people view me that way …if you remove the fun bit.

I guess telling them that Little and Flight (chucks) have started laying cream eggs didn’t help. Grace’s eyes were as big as saucers as she said, ‘Really, Grandma, wow?’ Jake took a split second before he rolled his eyes and said, ‘Not really, Grace. It’s a trick, isn’t it Grandma?’

I wasn’t prepared to say one way or the other so I just winked. These children believe in Santa and The Tooth Fairy, so why not chucks that lay cream eggs.

Of course, Richard had to breeze up and say, ‘Blimey, I bet the silver paper hurt their bums when they laid those.’

Silly Richard.

Anyway, time and tide and all that. Must dash. I need to blitz level 113…or not!

Take care my lovelies